Ain't Misbehavin'
by nubodca
Summary: A somewhat manic overhaul of "Oh, What a Swell Party This Is!" AU Klaine. The year is 1926, and a young Blaine Anderson is trapped alone in suburban limbo. He meets Kurt Hummel, a prominent fashion designer in Manhattan, and his whole world goes topsy-turvy. M for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

The sound of a gramophone crackling to life startled Blaine, who had been sleeping fitfully on his wrought-iron day bed. He rubbed his eyes at the room slowly came into dim focus: the large burgundy canopy bed pushed up against the far wall, the ornate crystal chandelier which hung heavily from the ceiling and the table where the gramophone sat. Next to the table stood a dark, feminine figure holding a bundle against her chest. The ragtime music from the gramophone floated softly across the room as the figure spoke.

"The party at the Hummel mansion starts in an hour, Mr. Anderson," she said. "I pressed your shirt; I'll just lay it out next to the rest of your clothes." She walked over to the bed and spread out the crisp blue-and-white striped shirt next to a pair of white pants and blue argyle socks. She herself was dressed in a plain, unflattering housekeeper's dress, though Blaine thought her face strikingly beautiful in the blood-orange light of the setting sun coming in through the bay window. He shook his head to clear it of the distracting thought and picked up a half-full glass of lemonade from the floor next to the bed.

"Thank you, Miranda," Blaine grumbled, hoisting himself off the day bed and stumbling over to where she had arranged his clothes, taking a drink from the glass. "Have the car ready in ten minutes."

"Yes, Mr. Anderson," she said, bowing her head slightly as she turned to exit the room.

"Oh, and Miranda?"

She stopped abruptly, mid-stride. Blaine admired the way she went up on tiptoe to turn around and face him. "Yes?"

"Thank you," he said, smiling. Miranda blushed slightly.

"You're welcome, sir." And with that, she swiftly turned around and left.

When Blaine was sure she was out of earshot, he went over to the gramophone and turned up the volume, dancing along to the swinging rhythm as he stripped off his day clothes, until finally he was down to just a white undershirt and boxers. He whistled as he pulled on his socks, remembering how utterly overjoyed he'd been to find them at Macys on his last visit to Manhattan. Blaine lived a comfortable distance away from the main island in a rather stately mansion in Beechhurst, just across the Sound from Locust Point. Having recently graduated from Columbia with a degree in history, Blaine decided to take the year off in his parents' house while they were off touring in Greece and Italy. Despite the freedom to do whatever he wanted, _when_ever he wanted, Blaine could not shake the undeniable truth that, aside from the servants who took care of the house, he was very, _very _alone. Blaine frowned at this thought as he buttoned up his shirt and tucked it neatly into the waist of his pants. He picked up a red bowtie and pulled it around the collar of his shirt before grabbing his navy blazer, eager to get on the road as soon as possible. He needed to get out of this house; he needed to see new people.

The clock on the wall struck the quarter hour as Blaine descended the staircase into the foyer. A copy of the New York Times on the parlor table announced the toll of a devastating hurricane that hit Miami earlier that week. The day was Friday, September 24, 1926. Blaine finished tying his bow tie and pulled open the large oak door to the exterior of the house and the horseshoe-shaped driveway. The sun had almost disappeared behind the Manhattan skyline, giving the buildings a hauntingly beautiful glow of deep crimson. A black Studebaker sat idling in front of him with his driver, Stanford, sitting patiently behind the wheel. Blaine hopped in the back seat and spread his arms out behind him.

"All ready, Mr. Anderson?" Stanford asked in his slightly posh Connecticut drawl.

"To Manhattan, Stan, and full speed ahead! It's nearly eight o'clock and I'm still not drunk!" Stanford chuckled quietly as he put the car into drive and rolled out of the driveway and onto the main road. Blaine settled back into the leather seat, settling against the side of the car and stretching his legs across the seat. He sighed quietly as he looked out the window of the car, passing house after house, each one containing a family which was no doubt gathered around a dinner table at that very minute, wanting for nothing…

Blaine loved his parents, though sometimes he wondered if they remembered he even existed. Starting when Blaine had barely learned how to walk, his father had encouraged him to take an interest in business in the hopes that one day his son would be able to take over for him as the head of the largest newspaper syndicate on the Eastern sea board. Blaine grew up with a very romantic notion of life, however, not at all suited to the high-powered demands of the business world. His father took it as a rather nasty shock when, after two years into his college education, Blaine declared himself an American Studies and European Histories double-major. A year later, he broke off his engagement with Lola Merrick, a young writer at Barnard who wrote novels about love affairs in the Midwest. Ever since he had remained unattached; every Christmas and summer he would return to the house in Beechhurst, seeing his parents only at breakfast and dinner and spending most of his time reading in his room or down by the shore. Occasionally, one of his college friends would stop by (Finn Hudson in particular loved to toss a football with Blaine in the yard on bright, warm afternoons), but for the most part, it was just Blaine.

The lights of the city began to flare up in front of them like matchsticks in the high windows. Blaine leaned out the window of the car and breathed in the night air.

"Only a month graduated and you're already heading back to the island, eh?" Stan quipped.

Blaine smiled quietly to himself. "You of all people should know, Stan, that Beechhurst was never made for someone like me. I need the hustle and bustle of city life more than my father. It just –" He struggled to find an adequate word to describe it. Stan nodded perspicaciously.

"It's exciting, isn't it?" he said, not so much a question as a recognition of shared feeling.

"Exactly," Blaine exhaled, relieved. "It's exciting."


	2. Chapter 2

The Hummel mansion existed as a world unto itself, a grand old mansion on Park Avenue built just before the Civil War. The façade of light sandstone was broken up quite nicely by large bay windows on each of its three floors, and the two large, mahogany front doors were set in an equally large marble archway. Blaine slid out of the car and instinctively smoothed out the front of his jacket.

"What time should I come back for you, Mr. Anderson?"

"You know you can call me Blaine, Stan."

"I know, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine smiled. "I'll get a cab. Thank you, Stan."

"My pleasure, Mr. Anderson. Have a good time!"

Blaine watched the car disappear around the corner before he made his way up the singular stone step to the front door. Ivy designs were carved into the marble arch with such precision that upon his arrival, Blaine couldn't help but run his fingers over them in quiet admiration before knocking on the door. When he did, it opened almost immediately, revealing a colorful, almost manic scene within.

Whoever had answered the door was long gone, lost in the crowd of people mingling in the foyer, clutching flutes of champagne and periodically halting lively conversations in order to hail the butler for a refill. The men were all dressed much like Blaine, though most of their blazers had been shed in the heat of the party. The ladies all seemed to be in an unspoken competition for most extravagant headgear, ranging from peacock feathers to diamond pins set in floral patterns to what Blaine was quite sure were solid gold headbands. He slowly made his way through the crowd, winding through the throng of New York's young and beautiful elite to the back, where he knew Kurt would be.

Blaine had only met Kurt Hummel once before, at a charity ball two weeks before at the Met. He was meant to go in place of his parents, so he invited Rachel Berry, one of his best friends from childhood, as his date. They chatted politely with all of his father's connections in the newspaper business, not noticing the tall, elegantly dressed man who had been eyeing Blaine since the moment he entered the room. At one point, Blaine excused himself to use the restroom, leaving Rachel to chat with the man responsible for the new radio broadcasting network, NBC. When he returned, she appeared to be having a very lively conversation with a rather tall, chestnut-haired man with delicate features and a definite air of gentility about him. He traced his finger around the rim of his champagne glass as he laughed at something Rachel said, glancing over her shoulder and smiling triumphantly when he saw Blaine had returned. Rachel apparently noticed this, as she turned around to see what the man was suddenly so happy about, and waved Blaine over cheerfully when she saw that it was him. Blaine had never so much as seen the man before, but there was something incredibly compelling about him that Blaine couldn't quite place. The man extended his hand, still smiling broadly.

"Kurt Hummel. I was just talking to your friend here, Mr. –?"

"Anderson. Blaine Anderson." Blaine shook Kurt's hand, slightly stunned by the boldness of the man's introduction. His voice was light but full of energy and conviction.

"Yes, Blaine, your friend Rachel here was telling me all about your time at Columbia and how your father owns half of the newspapers in the city." Rachel blushed. "So tell me, Blaine, what is it you're up to now? Gearing up to take over the family business?"

Blaine couldn't repress a smirk.

"Not exactly, Mr. Hummel – "

"Please, call me Kurt."

"Well, Kurt, my father seems to think I wouldn't be any good running _one_ paper, much less seven. I'm actually looking into becoming a history teacher."

"History," Kurt quipped, "it's all just so _old_."

"And what is it you do, Kurt? What tickles your fancy, if not the annals of history?" Blaine tried to keep a defensive edge out of his voice.

Kurt straightened up, his smile never faltering.

"That's an excellent tuxedo, Blaine."

"You didn't answer my question…"

"Excellent cut, it gives you nice, broad shoulders without crowding the rest of your torso."

"I suppose it's alright, though the shirt could do with some taking in…"

"Could it now?" Kurt's voice had gone high-pitched and slightly condescending. Blaine was confused.

"So about your job –"

"Taking in where, exactly?" Kurt was frowning now.

"Sorry?"

"Unbutton your jacket, please."

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"I want to see your shirt. To do so requires the unbuttoning of your jacket." The edges of Kurt's mouth turned up in a smile. "Would you care to oblige me?"

Blaine turned to Rachel, who was grinning unabashedly for some reason.

"Go ahead, Blaine, show him your shirt."

Blaine frowned and turned back to Kurt, who was smiling back at Rachel. He slowly unbuttoned his tuxedo and took it off. Some people standing nearby took notice and began to whisper in Blaine's direction with narrowed eyes. Meanwhile, Kurt walked around Blaine, scrutinizing the shirt.

"Hmmm, the construction is flawless, but the tailoring is definitely slapdash." He tugged slightly at the fabric, pulling it in at places before letting it go. His hand passed slowly over Blaine's shoulder as he walked back around to face him. Blaine hastily put his jacket back on, the numerous eyes on him at that moment making him _very_ uncomfortable.

"Blaine, you asked me what it is that I do."

"Um, well, yes, I suppose I did."

"Well, for starters," he laughed, "I designed the tuxedo you're currently wearing."

Blaine's mouth hung slightly open as Rachel smiled excitedly at him.

"Kurt is a fashion designer for Brooks Brothers, Blaine. His house is that huge mansion on Park Avenue. You know, the one with all the windows?"

Blaine nodded mutely.

"Yes, old family house," Kurt continued, addressing Rachel but clearly enjoying Blaine's reaction. "As a matter of fact," he added, "I'll be hosting a party there in two weeks' time, just some acquaintances and models for the company. You and your friend should come." He gestured to Blaine, who was now hanging on his every word.

"Oh, I'll be out of town next week. My mother and I are going up to Canada for a little while."

"Oh, what a pity." Kurt shook his head, though the expression on his face indicated that nothing could be less of a pity. "Still," he said, turning to Blaine. "You should come. It'll be a swell party." He winked.

Before he could even think about it, Blaine agreed.

"Excellent. Be there around eight, that's when things really start to kick off."

The next two weeks could not come soon enough for Blaine.


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine entered the large kitchen, where a throng of people were all huddled in the middle around a singular entity. Suddenly, from the middle of the huddle, Blaine heard someone call his name and not two seconds later, Kurt appeared, wearing a black smoking jacket ensemble with a burgundy ascot peeping out cheekily at the lapels.

"Blaine, you made it!" Kurt exclaimed, grinning from ear to hear. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing butler's tray and thrust it into Blaine's hand. "I've been waiting for you! Come here, I want you to meet my friends…"

The evening passed with introductions all around, driving any conceptions of loneliness and isolation thoroughly from Blaine's mind. Around two o'clock, the guests began to slowly collect all of their belongings and go home, but Blaine lingered behind, lightheaded from the champagne and enraptured by Kurt's tales of designing suits for everyone from the President to the owners of every speakeasy north of 5th Avenue.

"Where do you think all the booze came from?" he giggled, clearly about three sheets to the wind.

Blaine laughed too, and suddenly Kurt leaned forward and kissed him, the alcohol not seeming to affect his physical coordination at all. Blaine, who had only ever kissed one other man in his life, stood stock still as Kurt's hand gently held his cheek. If he had closed his eyes, Blaine was certain it would have been just like kissing a woman. But he couldn't close his eyes, or rather, he didn't _want_ to close them. He barely knew Kurt, but between the manic energy of the party and the casual conversation which had dominated the evening, Blaine felt he wanted to know him more. _But…_ Blaine thought to himself. He broke the kiss and stepped back toward the door to the foyer as Kurt looked on after him, a slightly blurred but distinct longing in his eyes. Blaine turned slightly, intentionally not meeting Kurt's gaze.

"I should be getting home," he said gravely.

Kurt scoffed and began to approach Blaine with a notable swagger. "It's late, your driver is probably all the way back in Beechhurst, asleep. Stay the night here, and I'll have Maxwell call him for you first thing tomorrow morning."

"I really don't think –" Blaine countered.

"Nonsense. I have an extra bedroom upstairs." Kurt crossed the kitchen and brushed past Blaine as he made his way over to the large marble staircase in the foyer that led to the upper rooms. He mounted the first step, turned around, and arched an expectant eyebrow at Blaine. "Well?" he intoned in his sultriest voice. "Are you coming?"

Blaine said nothing, but slowly walked over to the staircase, mounting the first step next to Kurt. The older man smiled.

"_Wonderful_."

Blaine woke up the next morning in a bed that neither looked nor felt anything like his own. He looked down at his chest and realized that not only was the bed not his, but neither were the navy satin pajamas he was wearing. It wasn't until after he started panicking and racking his brain that the hazy memories from the previous night started to come back to him: the party, the champagne…the kiss.

He sat bolt upright in the bed, checking the pillows and sheets on both sides for any sign of another occupant in it besides himself.

_No, of course not_, he thought to himself, slightly shocked by this disappointment. _That would only happen to someone who had the fortune of being Not Me._ Blaine shook this rather self-effacing thought and focused his attention on a thin column of light streaming in through a split in the curtains, which illuminated thousands of tiny dust motes swirling in the air. His heartbeat had only just returned to its normal pace when a small but determined knock came at the door. Blaine ran a hand through his hair nervously.

"Come in."

A rather stiff-looking butler whom Blaine recognized from the night before came in, balancing a tray on which were placed a cup of coffee, a small carafe of milk, two slices of toast, and the newspaper.

"Mr. Hummel just stepped out for a few moments," the butler said in a light, posh English accent, setting the tray gingerly down on a small table next to a plush armchair in the corner, where Blaine now realized his clothes had been folded neatly and piled in a stack. "He did, however, request that I provide you with breakfast and one of your father's newspapers until he could see you off himself."

Blaine hastily got out of bed and walked over to the armchair, picking up his clothes, which he noticed, to his surprise, had been washed. He shook his head slightly to himself and addressed the butler, whose name he now remembered.

"That really won't be necessary, Maxwell. I'll just get dressed and call my driver, no need for any fuss."

Maxwell smirked.

"I really think Mr. Hummel would rather you waited until he returns. He's not the kind of man who enjoys being stood up by house guests."

"Well, you can tell Mr. Hummel –" Blaine started, starting to unbutton the pajama shirt he was wearing, but the sound of the great mahogany front door opening downstairs cut him off. Maxwell's sarcastic smile widened.

"Tell him yourself." And with that, he turned around and strode out of the room, a notable bounce now in his step. Blaine finished unbuttoning the shirt and pulled on his own undershirt and oxford. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs now and hastily took off the bottoms, pulling up his boxers just in time when Kurt appeared in the doorway, his eyebrow arched as he looked Blaine up and down with a discriminating eye. Blaine felt he might as well have been naked, but crossed his arms over his chest for good measure.

"I thought you said you'd call my driver first thing," he said, making his voice deep and commanding. Kurt snorted and crossed his own arms, allowing a smile to spread from his blue-grey eyes all the way to his mouth.

"I would think," he said, making his way over to the bed where Blaine still stood with his arms crossed, "that having a father in the paper business would have taught you that too often in life, people say one thing and do another." He picked up the folded white pants on the bed and handed them demurely to Blaine before brushing past him, determinedly looking out the window while Blaine pulled them on. "Besides," he said airily, stealing a glance at Blaine's backside as he bent over to step into his pants, "I have something I want to ask you."

Blaine paused for a moment and closed his eyes, dreading the question he knew was coming. He turned around, unable to keep the fear and uncertainty out of his eyes. Kurt knew what he was thinking and walked over to him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I won't tell anyone about last night, Blaine, I assure you. I know what young men do when they find out that one of their comrades is –"

"What's your point?" Blaine asked, the fear in his voice undeniable. Kurt let his hand slip from Blaine's shoulder down to his hand, clasping it with both of his.

"I see a lot of myself in you, the way I was when I got out of college not long ago: so full of energy, ready to take the world by storm, except for this one little secret that could destroy every dream you ever had. What I wanted to ask you, Blaine, is if you would let me help you live the life you always dreamed of without sacrificing who you really are; if you want to find a way to live without the fear of who might find out about you."

"Look, I'm not even sure I _am_, you know…"

"A homosexual?" Kurt offered indifferently. "Blaine, when you've been to as many parties as I have, you develop a sort of knack for knowing who's what, and trust me, champagne or no champagne, no straight man has _ever_ kissed me the way you did last night."

Blaine was speechless. Until now, no one had ever confronted him about his sexuality. Not even Rachel knew, which Blaine regretted, but he couldn't risk letting his father find out. He'd cut Blaine off completely, and without a job, Blaine would be helpless on his own. He unfolded his arms slowly.

"So what is it exactly that you propose I do? Move to Mexico? Live like a fugitive?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Don't be over-dramatic, Blaine. I just want you to live here until Christmas."

"I beg pardon?"

"Live with me. Park Avenue may not have the bay view of Beechhurst, but I think you'll grow to like it. If you think you'd rather stay there, I won't stop you. Your driver is waiting in front of the house right now if you wish to go."

Blaine sat down in the armchair and held his head in his hands, taking a moment to think. He thought back to the house in Beechhurst, to the empty rooms and the pleasant but unrelatable staff…to his day bed, which he used to avoid the inevitable feeling of loneliness he felt whenever he climbed into it. Outside, the noises of the city called to him, so different from the tranquility of the Sound. He didn't know this man very well at all, but the same something that captivated him that night at the Met was calling out to him. It almost felt as if there was no other reasonable choice at all.

Blaine looked up. Kurt was holding his hand out in front of him, inspecting his fingernails.

"You're…you're serious?" Blaine asked, still thinking this whole thing had to be a dream, or worse, a joke.

"Completely," said Kurt, not taking his eyes off his nails.

Blaine inhaled deeply. There was only one answer in his mind that made any sense. "Well then, I guess I should tell Stanford I won't be coming home today."

Kurt beamed. Blaine beamed right back, and together they walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the foyer.


	4. Chapter 4

Blaine still couldn't believe he agreed to stay with Kurt, but for once in his life, he actually felt like he was acting on impulse, and that felt _good_. After a rather awkward conversation with Stanford in front of the Hummel mansion, Kurt took Blaine to a café down the street and treated him to brunch. He sat with his legs crossed, his chin resting on his hand as he listened to Blaine talk about the history of Manhattan through mouthfuls of egg and sausage.

"So why _do _you bother with history anyway?" Kurt asked when Blaine had paused in the middle of his explanations about the Manhattan tribe to take a sip of coffee. "It's just studying a bunch of old, dead men who became famous for signing this or discovering that, isn't it?"

"Well, yes and no," Blaine replied, smiling. "I suppose I've always been interested in what happens after the story stops running on the front page."

Kurt cocked his head to the side. "I don't follow."

"Here," Blaine picked up a newspaper that had blown across the street and under their table. "This hurricane that just hit Miami? Hundreds of people lost their homes. Some even died. Their lives have been changed forever because of this singular event, but the minute something bigger comes along – political scandal, war, anything splashy like that – everyone will forget them, just like _that_." He snapped his fingers to emphasize the point.

Kurt slowly lifted his chin off his hand and smiled at Blaine bemusedly. "So history is your way of following through, then? Checking up on people to make sure they get the fairytale happy ending, is that it?"

Blaine blushed. "I never thought about it that way before…"

Kurt's smile warmed. "Well I find it absolutely charming." He checked his watch. "It's almost eleven. I thought we might have Max drive us over to the shore and we could take a boat out on the Sound for a bit. Your friend Rachel told me you were the coxswain for Columbia's crew team, is that right?"

Blaine was becoming slightly alarmed at the sheer volume of information Rachel had apparently shared with Kurt in the four minutes he was in the men's room at the Met, but he decided not to address his concerns for the time being.

"You've got a boat?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Actually, it's more like a yacht," Kurt said, turning his head up as he considered the appropriateness of the designation. "And we won't be rowing so much as sitting in deck chairs while Max steers us around Roosevelt Island. But it should be lovely all the same." He smiled as Blaine's face froze in an expression of incredulity.

"A yacht," he muttered. "It's a little chilly, don't you think?"

Kurt's eyes lit up at this. "I'll make sure Max brings some of the lovely overcoats I designed for this fall's collection," he said, the excitement in his voice causing it to hitch up in a higher octave. "Come on, you can help me pack a lunch basket!"

Twenty minutes later, the two men were back in Kurt's kitchen, filling a woven picnic basket with numerous bottles of gin, two tumblers, watercress crackers, and several large hunks of what Kurt assured Blaine were very expensive, smelly cheeses whose names even he had difficulty pronouncing. After padding the sides of the basket with cigarettes, the two men loaded into the back of Kurt's car – a pale yellow Rolls Royce – and headed off to the marina, chatting and debating animatedly along the way. When they arrived at the marina, Blaine immediately spotted Kurt's yacht: a gleaming white 60-footer, big enough for at least fifty people, with an enclosed wheelhouse and stateroom on the upper deck. When they got out of the car and walked down to the dock to board it, Blaine saw the name "Alexander" emblazoned on the hull in gold lettering.

"A gift from my favorite uncle before he died last year," Kurt said, answering a question that hadn't been asked. "Alexander was the name of his bullmastiff. Gorgeous dog." He paused for a moment. "When my father found me in bed with another man for the first time, he cut me off financially and made me leave the house. Uncle Robert was the only relative who would take me in. I owe everything I have now to that man." He breathed in deeply and smiled, looking right at Blaine. "Just goes to show you what one small act of kindness can do. Come on, now, up you go," Kurt took hold of Blaine's hand and led him up the small gangplank to the deck of the ship, Maxwell following behind them with the picnic basket.

Blaine and Kurt stood at the bow of the ship as Maxwell guided them out of the marina and into the Sound. Kurt went over to the picnic basket, which had been placed on a large wicker chair by the railing, poured gin into the tumblers and handed one to Blaine.

"A toast," he said, "to small acts of kindness, whatever they may be." He took a swig, but stopped when he saw that Blaine wasn't drinking.

"Something wrong, Blaine?"

Blaine swirled the gin around in the tumbler, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I told you," Kurt said, "I just want to show you how life can be without fear. That, and I thought both of us could use the company. I always find my mind to be much sharper when there is another present to compete with."

Blaine couldn't help but smile at this. "So I'm your intellectual whore then, am I? Resigned to debate and discuss anything at your whim."

Kurt laughed. "Now when you say it like that, of course it sounds positively dreadful."

Blaine stepped forward and straightened the lapels of Kurt's overcoat, their faces mere inches apart.

"On the contrary," Blaine muttered. He leaned in further until his mouth was right next to Kurt's ear. "I actually look forward to being your whore, intellectual or otherwise."

With that, Blaine took Kurt's cheek in his hand and pulled him into an impassioned kiss. Maxwell continued to steer the ship around the Sound, smiling with something resembling fatherly pride when Kurt finally took hold of Blaine's hand and led him to the lower decks.


End file.
